


Conditional

by Rosage



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Nonbinary Character, Notes and warnings inside, Other, Post-Black Eagles Route (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Trans Ferdinand von Aegir, Trans Hubert von Vestra
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-07
Updated: 2020-11-07
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:14:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27441007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosage/pseuds/Rosage
Summary: Nothing about Ferdinand is consistent, save for love.
Relationships: Ferdinand von Aegir & Constance von Nuvelle, Ferdinand von Aegir & Dorothea Arnault, Ferdinand von Aegir/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 6
Kudos: 45





	Conditional

**Author's Note:**

> Ferdinand is genderfluid and uses he/him pronouns, but he is still questioning (and struggling with that, as well as working through internalized ideas), lacks some of this vocabulary, and has not explored additional pronouns. His father is referenced as being unsupportive. 
> 
> Hubert is a trans man. Please be aware that Ferdinand’s PoV presents Hubert’s experiences as simpler than they actually are.
> 
> This fic contains discussions of physical transitioning.
> 
> Thank you to Adrian for previewing this!

Ferdinand undoes and redoes his vest buttons. He tugs on the fabric, which seems to cling to different parts than it did days before. After trying on a couple of jackets, he ties back his hair. The ribbon feels tight against his nape. He pulls it free, frowning at the weight around his shoulders. It is long past time to cut it. Besides, the ends have split, and—

“We’ll be late. You’re to present a new policy, not a fashion show,” Hubert says. Without turning, Ferdinand can picture him leaning against their bedroom door, his arms crossed.

Policy. Yes. As he adjusts his cravat, Ferdinand puffs out his chest and practices his introduction, using the deep voice that will make people pay him any mind. Bold declarations—no hesitation for the older nobles to jump on. It will be up to his partner and Edelgard to temper his course if need be.

By the time he enters their main chamber, Hubert is putting away the tea set. Ferdinand wilts. It would have been worth attending the meeting in a jester’s suit to not miss their morning ritual, if only to drink in the set of Hubert’s shoulders and his quiet rumble.

At a young age, Hubert declared who he was. Edelgard’s shadow, a knife in the dark, a pragmatist. A man. He never—at least, as far as even Ferdinand knows—picked up a 20th hobby, only to be dissuaded from it.

This past fortnight, the world flopped every time someone addressed Ferdinand as _sir_ , only for the honorific to lock into place again. His usual dramatics, no doubt.

“Hey, Hubert?” he asks regardless as he gathers his files. “How did you choose your name?”

Hubert pauses, his hand on the cabinet door. He closes it before answering. “The last Hubert von Vestra was particularly devoted. Or so my father claimed.”

“I see.” Unsurprising, given Ferdinand can recite the deeds of every Ferdinand von Aegir. His own boasts branded them in his mind, until he dropped the credits, then the entire surname, and now… Well, does it matter how he introduces himself now? “Does that… ever make you want to change it?”

“No.” Hubert yanks his cape from its hook. “I discarded all memory of that rat addressing me. Lady Edelgard has done so in such a variety of tones, I could scarcely answer to anything else, lest I miss a beat.” The lines of his form disappear beneath his cape.

 _Who helped you change your body?_ The question, like so many, remains for Ferdinand to ponder. It is hardly worth prying into Hubert’s past. No matter what Ferdinand does, his clothes will cling one day, only to cease the next.

* * *

As Ferdinand sinks onto a pillow in Dorothea’s dressing room, he fancies that they are co-stars. That he returned with her from rehearsal, grit and sweat that will earn bright lights and shining eyes. That his throat is not sore from a day of debating, but from singing, his voice rising high enough to sparkle in the chandeliers.

Not that he would. There are things he has never wavered on—making a better world for the people he serves, for one, even if he has given up being a duke. And then there is the intensity of his feelings whenever he watches Edelgard move straight ahead, always straight ahead.

Even as a young princess, she was too focused to _play._ She would stare at the chessboard while he fidgeted, until she placed a piece with a clack, always a move to best him. Of course, she would play at being a good sport, clutching her ribbon-covered skirts to dip into a careful curtsy. His hands always fussed at his side.

Dorothea sheds her shoes and shawl to lounge beside Ferdinand. She would not stretch or grimace so if she was onstage or greeting her public. Whether it is meant as a slight or not, it honors him that she does not feel a need to maintain his affection. She turns down a foot rub and requests wine, which he pours. He spins the bottle around in his palm.

“Do you ever wonder who else you could have been?” he asks.

“Why do you think people do opera? I think I’d make a great royal tutor, don’t you?”  
  
“Oh, undoubtedly.”

She sips her wine. “Of course, if I’d done that, I wouldn’t have so many buzzing bees.”

And if she had not joined the opera the day she did, he may have found her again. Then again, if he had not been forbidden from returning to the opera house, it would not have mattered. Father wanted him to focus on his studies, not horses or jousting or—Goddess forbid—brawling, or… it does not matter how he described the opera, but it had something to do with Ferdinand spending long hours locked in his room, trying to imitate Manuela’s swinging movements.

“And what’s buzzing around that overactive mind of yours, Ferdie?”  
  
The name nestles in his head like a weighted blanket. Perhaps Dorothea created it to belittle her nasty little bee, but even then, she threw him something to cling to.

“Overactive? Have you not called it empty of all thought?”

“Sometimes. But not when your forehead is all wrinkly. It’ll stay like that, you know. Haven’t you seen Hubie?” She prods at his brow. No longer on the front lines, he wills himself not to flinch.

“As you might recall, I quite admire him. At any rate, I meant to ask what working with Manuela was like.”  
  
“I never claimed to understand your taste. And you have asked. Several times.”

“Yes, and you have shared the most wonderful stories, but they were all so glamorous. I suppose I am curious about the little things.” He resists the urge to tuck his hands under his chin. Dorothea fiddles with one of her bangs.  
  
“I don’t know how much she would appreciate me sharing, but—oh.” She waves the bang around. “She used to do my hair.”

She slides behind Ferdinand and gathers his locks as she continues her story. He closes his eyes, letting her healer’s hands work. Thank goodness he has not cut off the very thing that garners such affection. When Dorothea suggests doing it like Manuela’s in his favorite opera, his heart palpitates. He tries to remain still while she weaves his hair.

The tickle at his back stops short. “I didn’t really think it through,” Dorothea says.  
  
“Think what through?”  
  
“This braid. She played Seiros.”

Oh, dear. To think, he sits in her image with her blood on his hands, and his blood stamped with Cichol—a symbol of the land for a family named after the sea. Dorothea undoes the braid before he can look.

* * *

That dressing room is still on Ferdinand’s mind when he seeks out Constance. At lunchtime, he finds her in the palace library, chewing on a quill. He slides her one of her favorite pastries and compliments her blouse, its sleeves loose and its collar ruffled. In their younger days, they secretly swapped clothes, before the ‘two blooms’ blossomed into different shapes.

“May I seek your opinion on a magical matter?” he asks.  
  
She lowers her poor, mangled quill and brightens. “I would be offended if you didn’t.”

Joining her at her table, he tries to sound unaffected. “Do you know of spells that change a person’s characteristics—say, their voice, or their appearance—and are impermanent?” 

She begins describing various cases. Halfway through describing a man fabled to turn himself into a frog, she aims a sharp look at Ferdinand. Ah. Whatever she has decided, he is about to act on it, to her specifications.

“I have a friend you should meet,” she says. Without further ado, she strides from the library.

They are almost out of the palace walls before he asks, “And who is this friend?”

“My pegasus, of course.”

She throws open the grand door and halts. Sunlight tarnishes the marble floor behind them with long shadows.

“I assume you remember how to escort a lady?” she asks.

He rushes to offer his elbow. She hangs onto it, her nails digging in, and steps into the light for him. Heart wobbling, he brushes his fingers over her knuckles.

They used to hold hands, until as an older child she insisted a young lady required a gentleman’s arm. He complained that he could not run off without jerking her shoulder.

“My apologies for burdening your pace,” she says.

Does she truly remember his infantile whining, or is it simply her malady speaking? Regardless, he drops his lips to the crown of her head.

“Not at all. A lovely stroll is just what I needed,” he says.

“Then forgive this one’s dreariness.”

“Not at all,” he says again, softly. A kiss to her cheek, this time, then silence as they step between the hedges onto a cobblestone path. Lavender air only goes a little way to soothing him. Horses repay his treatment on any day, but most pegasi buck male riders, as Hubert once mentioned with an odd expression.

“Will my presence not offend her?” he finally asks. Constance bites her lip. Usually jaunty and solid, her head and limbs seem likely to float off.

“I, too, fear I am unworthy. Yet no matter my demeanor, she accepts me.”

“She sounds like a true friend.”

Constance’s smile is ghostly, but present.

They cross the dirt to the stables and enter its shade. Constance’s grip eases, but she maintains her hold as she sprints ahead, dragging him along.

“Rejoice, my lovely Luna! It is I!” she calls. She releases Ferdinand to fuss over a black pegasus with pink and blue ribbons braided into her mane. After murmuring in her companion’s ear, she waves a hand toward Ferdinand. “Allow me to present the illustrious Luna von Nuvelle.”

Sweat slides down what must be the length of his spine. He approaches with the muscle memory that got him through long days of marching.

“Hello, my lady,” he says. Luna tosses her head.  
  
“Is that any way to approach a queen?” Constance asks.  
  
“Oh! Forgive my insolence, Your Majesty.” He sweeps into a bow.

“Now, present an offering.”

She passes him a sugar cube, which he holds as carefully as an engagement ring. To his great relief, Luna accepts the treat. She sniffs his palm, then his arm, as if there is something besides a dagger up his sleeve.

“Forgive me, Queen Luna. I am not hiding more treats.”

She presses her wet nose against his cheek. Stays there, even though she has scented the essence of him. His legs dissolve into clouds as he buries himself in her neck. Winged and fabled or not, a horse pelt smells like horse.

Her wing enfolds him, as if to keep him afloat above the tilting ground.

* * *

The next evening, Ferdinand hurries to his chambers. Only once he is outside does he smooth his hair and clothes into some semblance of decency. Between their jobs and their sleep schedules, he and Hubert do not always find time to themselves. Even on this long-agreed date night, Hubert insisted they stay in. Likely he has somewhere questionable to slink off to afterward. They will make up for their missed tea and coffee, and Ferdinand will have to order that food be brought and waved beneath Hubert’s nose.

Instead, he finds their table set with roses and cloche-covered dishes. Hubert, sharp in a simple suit, helps him out of his jacket almost before greeting him. Did he forget their anniversary? A romantic holiday? Or is this one of those things Hubert refuses to communicate, such as a shadowy victory?

The plot only thickens when Hubert presents a small box. Gingerly, Ferdinand opens it and gushes over the broach inside, gold and amethyst.

“Don’t bother if it’s not to your taste,” Hubert says. “My network can locate any item in secret.”

For lack of another reaction, Ferdinand laughs. “My birthday is far off.”

“I am aware of that much, at least.” Hubert studies him. At once, Ferdinand is aware of his partner’s uncertain stance as he brushes imaginary dust from Ferdinand’s shoulder.

“Hubert, what is this about?”

“The other morning, I was not attentive enough.”

The other morning? “I am sure it was fine. We have both been busy.”

“When you asked about my name, you seemed… preoccupied.” Hubert adjusts Ferdinand’s cravat. “You must know not a word breathed inside these chambers leaves them.”

Ferdinand’s throat constricts. “How did you—”

“Constance interrupted my duties to pester me about transmutation spells.”

“She, she was not meant to—”

“She did not technically break your confidence. Although, despite her other mental capabilities, I would never hire her as a spy. In about the same breath, she demanded to know if I was being a good partner.”

“Oh.” Ferdinand pinches Hubert’s cheek and tries to smile. “I hope you said yes.”

“It was not my place to answer. At any rate, I admit she had a point. I might have expected to be the one you came to about this.”

Hubert’s eyes hold no offense, only self-recrimination. The broach weighs heavy in Ferdinand’s clutch. He places it on the stand by the door.

“You always appear so sure of yourself. My own feelings seemed silly. Besides, we have more important matters to focus on,” Ferdinand says. Were this not their date night, he would remind Hubert of a few items from that day’s council meeting.

Hubert takes Ferdinand’s hand, his kiss to the back of it too firm for the courtly gesture. “It’s true that I am unwavering in all I do. The devotion of my heart has no conditions.”

Again, Ferdinand’s throat tightens, this time in a way he has no desire to loosen. “Hubert.”

“As for the spells, I don’t see why something impermanent can’t be developed. Even if it is only used in these chambers, I could cast—”

“Hubert!”  
  
Hubert drops his hand. Before he can fuss further, Ferdinand throws his arms around him and clings. After a moment, Hubert pats his shoulder.

“You should eat before it gets cold,” Hubert says.

“ _We_ should eat.”

“Yes.” Neither move. “You’ve already inquired about my name. How shall I address you this evening?”

“‘Darling’ would not hurt for once, would it?”  
  
“I suppose not. Darling,” he adds, the afterthought so strained Ferdinand laughs.  
  
“I tease, love. Just call me yours.”  
  
“Naturally.”

The ground continues to tilt, but Hubert holds him, stiff yet careful—and for a moment, Ferdinand is still.


End file.
